In the cold Autumn breeze,
A hooded figure wandered towards a damp building,
His spray-paint clutched in his nimble hand.
Day by day he returned to create his masterpiece,
On the day he finished the model he made was a dying tree,
People gathered to see what it meant but no one knew,
Even the smartest man in town didn’t know what it symbolised.
But then a hooded stranger came
And spoke in a whisper saying,
“Autumn has come”.
How do I know this, you may say,
I know this is because,
That artist is me.